Marble and Stone
by Peppermintee
Summary: [oneshot] The piercing smell of alcohol wafted through her nostrils and threatened to make her sick. She pushed her chair back with a screech, easing out of it unsteadily, and forced herself to look around the spinning room. [HGRW]


**Disclaimer: **No.

**A/N:** I can't even give this one an explanation. It's just a random little ficlet that popped into my mind during one of my thoughtful days, I suppose (although I do try to avoid those pesky thoughtful days…). And yes, I know it's getting terribly clichéd to kill off Ronald Weasley, but… nah, I won't bother explaining this one either.

Come to think of it, there really isn't a _plot_ to this story. It's just… a moment in time I guess. To be brutally honest, I struggle to even see the point of this story… But hey, I love it just the same. –Insert smiley-

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**Marble and Stone**

Harry was standing up. His mouth seemed to be moving, and his face was solemn, but somehow she couldn't make out the words spilling from his mouth. God, she was going to have a killer hangover in the morning.

She tried to focus when everyone around her lifted their glasses… they all looked the same didn't they? Like an army of sad, black robots. For Merlin's sake, they even took a sip at the same time. She frowned when all the eyes in the room turned to her expectantly.

"To Ronald Weasley," they murmured in unison.

Oh. Oh, right. Ron. That might explain the tugging pain at the back of her head - might explain the limited colour spectrum of the entire room's wardrobe.

Everyone was still looking at her.

The piercing smell of alcohol wafted through her nostrils and threatened to make her sick. She pushed her chair back with a screech, easing out of it unsteadily, and forced herself to look around the spinning room.

"Excuse me…" she mumbled, and stumbled out of the room. There had to be a rest room someplace around here.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

After she'd retched out the entire pitiful contents of her stomach into the marble sink and taken a swig of mouthwash, she shut herself into a cubicle and leaned against the door, letting out a sigh of relief.

The cubicle was small and square, and the assimilated walls seemed to close in on her.

"It's over," they said. "You're trapped."

And maybe she was.

She perched on the edge of the toilet seat without bothering to go through the sanitary routine of wiping and padding with toilet paper… the idea that she'd once been so meticulous about something so trivial was laughable.

She stuck her hand into the too small, expensive leather purse on her lap and pulled out a delicate compact mirror. She flipped it open and hesitated to look into it… it wasn't as if she'd see anything new – the same young face with the same premature lines of worry, laughter… sorrow. She sighed.

She wasn't old enough. Not nearly old enough. 22 year olds weren't meant to be widows.

"Is this what you wanted, Ron?" she whispered, fogging up the immaculately clean glass.

She could remember him coming home everyday, greeting little Penelope, tousling Max's little orange head, and then falling into the covers, asleep before his head even touched the pillows. She'd never approved of how hard they were on top trained aurors. Her job in the Muggle Relations department of the Ministry let her leave home at 9 and be back to pick up the children by 5.

"I love my job," he told her. "And besides, it's what's getting us the life we have now. Isn't this everything we've ever wanted?"

And it was. She had him and he had her, and they shared a wonderful flat in London with two beautiful kids. Money was never a problem – neither was their social life. But something was missing, like something always is.

Sometimes – and she dared not say this out loud – but sometimes she missed those days when all they had were each other, a small apartment overlooking the neighbor's laundry, and the fresh smell of coffee every morning.

And now? What did she have now? True, she had the kids - and she would be the last to say that they weren't a gift from above – and she had the house and the friends… but these days it seemed as if she had less of this and more of, well… nothing.

First had come the denial, and then had come the hysterics. She had foggy memories of locking herself into their pristine suite and sobbing into Penelope's curly hazel hair. And after that had come depression, and finally, the hollow feeling of… nothing.

Truthfully, she was a little ashamed of herself. She should be grieving her husband, shouldn't she? Or at least be bravely recovering for her children, or organizing charitable funds in his name. Anything but this - nothing-ness.

"Hermione?"

She started, snapping the compact closed and stuffing it into her purse. She looked at the familiar red stilettos in view from under the cubicle door. At least someone wore some colour today.

"Ginny?"

She unlocked the door and looked into her friend's uncertain face.

"Hey."

"What're you doing here?"

"We all saw you leave the hall. We…" She gazed at her helplessly. "…we're worried about you, Hermione."

Guilt flashed through her head. Merlin. It was just like her to worry her friends without meaning to.

"Oh, I'm so sorry…" she apologized, "I'm fine, really. Just… you know, recovering, I suppose."

She paused and glanced down.

"I – I…"

She stared at Ginny's extended hand in incomprehension for a moment, before taking it and being led out into the foyer. They walked in silence towards the doors of the hall.

"Thanks," she blurted out finally. "For… being here, I guess."

Ginny smiled softly. "Stop being so hard on yourself, 'Mione. There's nothing you could've done. What, did you think you'd have been able to stop him from leaving for work that day?"

She shook her head.

"No, it's not just that… it's… it's just…" She drifted off despairingly and felt herself slump over a little bit.

"It's okay." Ginny said. "It's okay to stop feeling the pain, you know. It's… been months - you can't cry for him forever."

"It's okay to feel nothing?"

"It's… it's okay. To feel nothing. I promise. Now let's go - everyone's waiting."

She pushed the large oak doors open, and thought, just maybe, she felt a little bit of her heart reattach itself to the rest.

When she sat back down on the hard wooden chair and once again felt the nausea brought forth by the smell of champagne, she realized with a jolt that three months had passed without her monthly.


End file.
